Storm of Life
by Clez
Summary: To lose a child is one of the most difficult trials any parent can face... and vice versa. But, of course, some see justice in taking one life for another, and when old demons arise, can Alex O'Connell save his parents... and himself?
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** Hi everyone. First Mummy-related fic, so… yeah. This little plot-bunny was quite literally at my throat recently, and wouldn't leave me alone. Hope it's entertaining enough to grip your attention, though not much happens in this first chapter. Cast is all the same, except for – obviously – Alex, who is no longer Freddie Boath, for clear age difference. He is now represented by Shane West as seen in _League of Extraordinary Gentlemen_. Thanks. Enjoy, and let me know what you think.

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In a rush and flurry of fluidic motion, he spun on his right heel, lowering his left knee to contact lightly with the ground, and lashed out with his right blade, hearing the solid and hollow contact as it struck against his opponent's quarterstaff with such swift precision that it startled and almost unbalanced the fighter. Though experienced, there were still little things that caught him off guard, and at his age, he should know better than to drop it even in the slightest. It could cost him dearly, and with a grunt and a sneer, he leapt back, spinning, and then lashing out with both the lengthened Bowie knives he gripped, blades out, before his opponent twisted their body in such a way that both strikes missed, and the staff struck out at the back of his knees.

Rick O'Connell allowed his eyes to widen just a fraction, and failed to move fast enough. He slammed to the ground, and felt the air rush out of him in the process. He winced, and quickly rolled back with as much agility as he could muster, feeling the perspiration on his back and arms as he did so, hearing more than seeing the tip of the staff crack down where his chest had been.

His opponent came at him again, but Rick was ready for him, and with a cheeky grin, bowed down, nimbly slotting one Bowie into his hardy belt, as he snatched out with a hand, and jerked the staff in his fingers, twisting it in such a way that his fellow fighter was forced to let go… or sprain their wrist. They did what he had expected, and let the staff drop, but arched their body, and yanked the sheathed Bowie from the belt.

_Okay, should've seen that one coming._

Quickly stepping back, throwing the snatched quarterstaff to one side, he heard it clatter to the ground, rolling away to stop near the wall of the grand room they stood in. Both chests heaved with the exertion of combat, and their eyes locked across the slight expanse, intense and challenging.

"What're you waiting for?" Rick goaded lightly, cocking his head so that brown bangs fell in his eyes lightly, moistened by perspiration from his brow. He had grown accustomed to it over the years, and even though – despite him being loath and stubborn to admit it – his hairline _was_ receding somewhat, he had learned to just fight through it, and ignore it. He could see well enough, and it had never hindered him enough to spur cutting it. Keen eyes watched as his opponent took the bait, and rushed forward, spinning and striking out with the Bowie, which clashed against Rick's own weapon, and the two entered into a bizarre, dangerous dance, blades flashing and glinting in the illumination around them, their bodies twisting and arching impressively to avoid blows.

Rick saw his opportunity when the opponent foolishly exposed a blind spot, but instead of lashing out with the blade in what could have potentially been a fatal blow, he struck out with a foot instead. He didn't want to kill… no, victory could come in disarming and immobilising as well, and he had also learned this over the years, and learned it well.

His foot landed in the back of his opponent's vulnerable right knee, and there was a solid connection. The other man gave a sharp yell, and went down, in which Rick lashed out with a hand, snatching the Bowie away and throwing it to the side, out of reach, before forcing the other fighter right down to the ground with a knee on his chest. The Bowie he held went to the throat, and he loomed over him, victorious, panting slightly, but triumphant nevertheless.

The other, younger fighter, remained perfectly still under him, bright intelligent eyes staring up fixatedly at the victor, and Rick could feel the rise and fall of the chest as the breathing was forced into a faster pant from the weight on his body. Both palms were exposed in defeat, and the blonde hair was cast into disarray around the tousled head. But still, despite the blade at his neck, he didn't move.

Rick was vaguely aware of the third presence at the doorway to the room, simply standing, eyes wide in observation, stock still, not wanting to move in case something happened upon her doing so. So she just watched, with bated breath.

Silence fell upon the three, and finally, the pinned young man wheezed out, "You're goddamn heavy."

Rick laughed, and sprung back, rocking on his heels for a moment, before standing and sheathing his knife, reaching down with a hand to help up his sparring partner. The younger man heaved himself upright, and winced slightly.

"Watch your language," came the voice of the observer from the doorway, ever gentle and loving, but always somehow carrying an obvious undertone of chiding when it came to the topic.

The young man grinned, much in the trademark style, and said with an exaggerated accent, "Rather weighty, this." He gave Rick a playful shove as he said it, and the older man laughed, moving to retrieve the tossed weapons, to replace them on the wall racks where they belonged.

Evelyn 'Evie' O'Connell strode into the room, a slight smile delicately touching her lean, red lips as she approached. Her black pants showed she had been in the library, no doubt sorting through her overly-numerous volumes or perhaps casting her mind back in history, to past events and reflecting on them as she often did. The past twenty years had been anything but dull.

Standing in the centre of the room, recuperating from his defeat, was Alexander 'Alex' O'Connell. His youthful eyes were an interesting blend of blue – just a subtle hint of hazel – and green, and his blonde hair was a mystery still to both his mother and father. Evie's hair was an ebony shade – if you could call black a shade – and Rick's was a mahogany brown. But then again, it had been that light – almost sunny – shade since Alex was a child, and it hadn't changed yet, only darkened slightly. His inherited mischief and cunning still shone out of him like a radiant light, exuded from his playful smile or his intelligent eyes. He stood close to Rick's height now, far from the short boy he had once been, and now much more imposing if he wanted to be. But then, Alex had seen much recently.

Over the past decade, he had been drafted into service in the armed forces, to fight in the war, and Rick and Evie – though the father himself had gone home to America to help with his own side – had waited with bated breath for their son to return to them, unharmed. Rick had been firm in the belief, that if Alex could survive the Bracelet of Anubis, then what was a little field combat? Evie hadn't been so confident, but her optimism had held resolute. It had paid off when Alex had strode through the main doors of the large house they called home, healthy as ever, but having seen much more death and destruction than he might have liked, even with Rick and Evie for parents. He was slightly harder than he had been upon leaving, but most of it was shoved beneath the surface.

Rick had been proud to hear that Alex had been one of the best shots in his regiment. It had made him grin for about three hours, causing Evie to deliver a light cuff to his ear, telling him that not everything was down to pulling – or _squeezing_ – a trigger and landing a blow. Of course, after that, Rick's pride had been hidden from the apparently offended Evie who had simply been overjoyed to have Alex home again. He had had more spoiling over the next month than he had in years.

Being twenty now, Alex had tried to insist to his mother that he knew how to take care of himself, and – for example – didn't need to have _all_ his meals prepared for him, and that he could make coffee for himself. But Evie had had none of it, and had waited on him hand and foot for a while until Rick had stepped in with a gentle rebuke. She had backed off a little after that, and even though his son had said very little on the topic for fear of reintroducing it, Rick knew he was grateful for the reprieve from the over-lavishing of a relieved mother.

"Are you all right, Alex?" Evie asked, throwing Rick a somewhat scolding glare sidelong as she stood before her son, who now overshadowed her much like his father did. Rick had to smile at that. "You took quite a blow."

"I'm fine, mum," he insisted, waving off Evie's lifted hand.

"He's fine, Evie, he knows how to take care of himself."

"Well, try and be more careful, Rick. What good are sparring lessons if you try and knock him out every time?" Evie turned on Rick with a trademark lifting of the brows. Rick inwardly insisted that, one day, they were just going to disappear right up into her hairline, never to be seen again.

Alex rolled his eyes subtly, but Evie caught it, without even seeing her son do so, and warned, "Don't do that."

Alex actually laughed, cheeky but wary as always, and even took a step away from his more than capable mother. If the two ever sparred, Rick probably would have put money on Evie. He'd seen her in combat… briefly… once or twice.

He shook his head to focus his mind, and tried to change the subject, "Dinner nearly ready?"

"Rick, it's half past three in the afternoon." Evie narrowed her eyes, catching onto the deception and attempt at misdirection.

_Damn her for being so quick… okay, I can't damn her. Who am I kidding?_

She could be so awkward and challenging at times, even downright bracing, but that didn't stop him from remembering why he had fallen in love with her. Sighing, he said, "Never too early for dinner."

Alex snorted rather unflatteringly at his father's attempt to cover his mistake, and crossed his arms over his chest casually, glancing between Rick and Evie, intrigued.

"If you wish to have dinner now, you know very well where the kitchen is… _darling_." She smiled triumphantly, knowing already that her victory was sound enough to end the pointless argument. Rick slumped his shoulders.

"Fine. We'll do it your way." He smiled a winning smile, and it was the woman's turn to roll her eyes. She moved over to Rick, and sighed lightly, before giving him a knowing, yet pleading gaze. Rick smiled warmly, and heard Alex groan lightly under his breath. He was half-aware of his son leaving the room, saying, "I'll be at Uncle John's."

"Be back by seven," Evie muttered, more a subconscious action than anything. Why she was so controlling over her clearly-matured son, Rick would never know, but family was more important to her than anything. Which was probably why Jonathan Carnahan – her brother – lived only a five minute walk away. He had purchased a house with his percentage of the colossal diamond they had 'acquired' from the top of the pyramid in the oasis in the middle of the desert a little over ten years ago. Had it really been so long? It felt like only yesterday… but he was in no mood for nostalgia.

Smiling down at her, he bowed his head, and kissed her lovingly on the lips, never growing tired of the feel, smell or taste of his wife, even as so many years together.

**_To Be Continued…_**

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	2. Temptation Waits

**Author's Note:** Thanks to those to read the Prologue. Sorry about the wait. The site was in read-only mode when I wanted to update, and… argh. This is getting very, _very_ annoying _::__growls::_

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"Hmm… I wonder if… no…"

His musings cut into the recording of a concert from some such performer, and he furrowed his already creased brow as he perused the paper, eyes squinting at the small prints under some of the headlines. There was never anything juicy in these things. Tabloids… what did they know? Nothing but propaganda and hype, the lot of them. But then again, there were sometimes some interesting offers in them; nevertheless, ones that never failed to whet his appetite.

Jonathan Carnahan cocked his head, and sighed, wondering why he had even bothered with the record at all. He wasn't even that keen on it.

"That's what I get for borrowing blindly from Evie," he muttered to himself… and of course, by borrowing, he meant… without her strict or knowing permission. He would give it back, he had just been notoriously and naturally curious, as he had always been, since childhood. Evie had had the brains, and he had had… the nose. No, that sounded wrong. What was the word he was after? He had always been the inquisitive one when it came to material things; yes… that was more like it. He had always had a nose for profit.

Though that made him sound greedy, something he wasn't exactly opposed to, but he wasn't keen on it either. It had often got him into deep trouble, somewhere around waist-height actually. It was a trait of his, and not one he was willing to part with anytime soon. It was part of who he was, and dammit, Jonathan was proud of that.

"Ah, here we go…"

Smiling, he nodded. "This is more like it." He made a mental note of the page and without dropping his paper, took up a pen by his side, and jotted down the details. As he was reaching back to lift the paper to his nose again, he heard it.

"Hey, Uncle John."

With a startled yell not unbecoming a ten year old, Jonathan jerked in his chair rather violently, successfully sending both the newspaper and the pen he had been using up into the air, the sheets scattering all over the place, and falling like giant, oversized snowflakes all around him. With wide, dark eyes, he glanced at the young figure standing, laughing before him. The tousled blonde head shook from side to side in his mirth, and Jonathan smoothed down his shirt as he grumbled out, "Well I'm glad you found it so bloody funny. Sneaking up on me… you should know better."

"Just thought I'd come by and see you." Alex took it upon himself to perch youthfully on the arm of another armchair opposite his uncle, and Jonathan watched him curiously, noticing his ever-ready posture and tension. He had gotten that from his father, Jonathan knew… didn't doubt it for a second, nor had he ever. He had his mother's eye and brain for Egyptology, and his father's strength and cunning… best of both worlds really.

"Let me guess," Jonathan began slyly, "they're at it again."

Alex nodded, in an almost distracted fashion, bending down from his seat to pick up his uncle's dropped pen, and tossed it towards him casually. Jonathan snatched it – or rather, fumbled – out of the air in front of his face, and quickly put it down on the table as he cleared his throat. "Thought they would've grown out of that by now."

"Fat chance."

Jonathan knew he was to be forever intrigued and perplexed by Alex's odd voice. From having a typically English mother, and a far beyond typically American father, it fluctuated frequently between the two, wavering and dipping at odd words and intervals. When around the youth, Jonathan had noticed it depended on the company as to whether or not it was dominantly American or English in accentuation.

"So… you look a little… what's the word?"

"Sweaty?"

"That'd be the one." Jonathan lifted a brow, and then smiled. "Ah, dad's at it again, 'eh? Teaching you the old rough and tumble."

"… You know, that is a bizarre way to describe sparring, Uncle John… and a little scary." Alex's brow furrowed beneath his blonde locks. His slight curl had been inherited from his mother. The boy – though he was technically classed an adult now – had a point.

"Right… see what you mean. Sorry." He shrugged. "How's it going then? The old sparring lessons." He always ran out of topics fast when it came to Alex. The younger man always tired him out – conversation wise – so easily that Jonathan found it hard to keep a track on what had been discussed. He supposed he should pay closer attention. He always found it so difficult, though.

"Good."

"Ah… he beat you again, didn't he?"

"He didn't beat me." Alex averted his eyes for a moment, and then looked back, jaw set in a determined fashion. "He cheated."

"And by cheated you mean… knocked out the back of your knee." It was far from being a question, because Jonathan knew he was right. It was the same story every time.

"If you want to get _technical_," Alex complained, standing from the seat, and wandering to the record player. "Hey, isn't this–"

"With permission, I'll have you know. She let me borrow it; no need to mention it at all, none whatsoever." Jonathan blinked when Alex looked at him sceptically. "All right, fine, I took it without asking, but she doesn't care anyway. Give her a book on Isis or whoever you fancy, and she's in her own little world. You know that better than anyone, after all, she's the one who taught you everything _about_ Egypt and the Gods and what have you."

Alex chuckled after a while. "I love it when you ramble, Uncle John."

"Goody… I do try so hard to be funny," Jonathan drawled sarcastically, only making Alex laugh louder. Jonathan had to admit though; he enjoyed spending time with his one and only nephew. He was fun to have around at times, and delightful at others. He was smarter than Jonathan could ever hope to be, and that inspired him… but he would never admit it. It was better than sitting in his big house all by himself anyway. He couldn't quite attract the ladies as he had been able to before… not that he minded.

Oh, who was he kidding? It was downright disheartening to think about it. Ten years ago, he would have been able to… okay, now he was deluding himself. Sighing, he started to gather up the sheets of his spilled newspaper, noticing Alex helped him. It seemed he had gotten his considerate nature from his mother as well, something Jonathan wasn't about to complain for.

"So, have anything in mind for…?" Jonathan had a habit of inquiring as to Alex's future prospects, even though he had a fair idea on what the young O'Connell had always wanted to do with his life.

Alex simply quirked a brow, and smiled lopsidedly, reminding Jonathan so much of Rick that he froze for a moment, before reminding himself that he should be used to it by now. He didn't need to say anything out loud. It was all in his gaze and expression, and practically screamed 'you should know by now'.

"You know, I do wonder what your mum thinks about that."

"Well… I am an adult. I think I can decide for myself," Alex followed, and stood, a handful of papers in his grasp. He gazed at them, furrowing his brow. They were out of order, in disarray, and he obviously wasn't keen on putting them back into place.

Jonathan stood as well, and placed the papers – along with those Alex handed to him – onto the table, to be sorted later, when boredom _really_ kicked in.

"Plus," Alex added, obviously as an afterthought, "I _am_ an O'Connell."

Jonathan glanced to him sidelong, and smiled. "Well, I can't argue with that. I have to admit, I didn't expect anything less from the minute you were _born_. You've got your mum's Egyptology, and your dad's combat skills… watch out, world, here comes Alex O'Connell. Be afraid…" He added a slight tinge of feigned menace onto the last section, and heard his nephew's laugh, his reward just as he had hoped.

Alex sighed, and picked up a switchblade from the mantle, toying with it cautiously, and Jonathan heard the flick and snap as the young man opened and closed it quickly and rhythmically. Give it a few more minutes, and he'd tell him to stop it if he hadn't already. Everybody had their limits.

"Alex?" Jonathan ventured, knowing his nephew was paying attention even if he didn't audibly confirm as such. "You have _told_ Evie– your mum, what you want to do, haven't you?"

"Of course I have… not that I need to. I think she's like you. I think she knew all along. She's tried to talk me out of it, spouting all the stories about the myths being real, and the danger, and the peril, blah, blah, blah," Alex returned with a sigh, "but it doesn't stop me from wanting to anyway. I can take care of myself."

"Yes you can," Jonathan agreed, turning to look at Alex properly. "But they're your parents. Doesn't stop them from worrying, does it?"

Alex stopped flicking the blade, regarding it as he turned it in the light for a moment, before he eyed his uncle. "What do you mean? Dad's never said anything–"

"Well of course he hasn't, kiddo, not to your face," Jonathan revealed, wishing he hadn't from the moment Alex's posture tensed slightly. He had no choice but to keep going. Alex would get it out of him anyway, so what was the point in resisting? "He doesn't say it, because he's proud of you anyway, after the war… but he doesn't want anything to happen to you, obviously. It's a parent thing. Let them worry."

Alex snapped the knife shut, eyeing the ceiling almost impatiently with a lengthy sigh. "Everybody's always worried about me."

"That's because," Jonathan began comically, striding over to the mantle as well, "you're the key to carrying on the O'Connell line, of course! Why, who would carry on your dad's old tricks if something happened to you, 'eh?"

Alex looked sceptical for a moment, before smiling with a slight laugh. "Look, it's not as if I'm going to read from The Book of the Dead, or steal The Bracelet of Anubis…"

"Again."

"All right, again, and that wasn't entirely my fault. How was _I_ supposed to know it wouldn't come off?"

"There's a rule I like to follow…"

Alex cut in quickly with a grin. "Take first, ask later?"

"No, not _that_ rule." Jonathan waved his hands dramatically, and placed himself theatrically back in his seat as if he were on show. "The other one… about… um… okay, sod the rules, I can't remember them anyway. But that's all in the past. I know you're not Rick and Evie, but you've got them inside you, and that should be enough to make _anyone_ worry."

"Very funny," Alex grumbled, before slumping his shoulders in defeat. "If mum got her way, I'd be a librarian or a curator for the rest of my life."

Jonathan cocked his head pensively. "And would that be so bad?" Before his nephew could respond, he screwed up his face, waved his hand again, and shook his head. "Forget I asked that. She tried that once herself, and… she doesn't get on with mobile shelving units."

Alex's face bore all the signs of curiosity, but for the sake of Evie's pride, Jonathan refrained from indulging his nephew in the details. Alex looked disheartened or annoyed by that slightly, but shrugged it off, settling into the chair opposite Jonathan after a little while.

Glancing around, Jonathan noticed the clock on the wall. It was almost four already. His stomach did a hungry flip, and he heard it growl, knitting his brow as he looked to Alex, asking, "So… um… what's Evie got planned for this evening?" With a nervous laugh, he knew the young O'Connell would understand what he meant by that, and when Alex smiled warmly, Jonathan grinned.

* * *

Light, somewhat pained eyes stared out the front of the building, her arms hugged around her, even as a shadow lingered behind her. She felt it more than heard it, and knew just who it was. He frightened her, though she had been advised he was the one to seek… locate and plead with. They had said he had no compassion; that the years had beaten it out of him, for all that he had suffered and lost himself, but here he was… _helping_ her. She still found it hard to believe for herself, though she didn't doubt the severity of the situation.

Desperate times…

"It is time," he said to her, his voice thick and deep, reverberating in Ancient Egyptian around the walls of her home and carrying to her boldly. It made her spine tingle, and she cast her eyes downward and around, to take in his feet as he stood behind her. Why was he suddenly commanding her? Was it not her who had provided him freedom?

Regardless of this fact, she found herself nodding consent, and replied, "Yes."

"The men must be sent."

"Yes," she offered again, and turned, walking past him, on her way out of the room, but when she was reaching for the door, his voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Do not reconsider your actions… it is to correct the wrongs done to you that we are doing this… is it not?" He made a quiet noise of consideration. "I doubt you wish to back out of this chance to have what is yours once again."

She turned her eyes upon him, her blonde curled hair falling to her shoulders like a light shroud, and she replied with, "Of course not. I will send the men."

He nodded slowly, a singular action, and she left the room, hurrying away down the corridor almost as if she were afraid he was watching her from the shadows. She could feel his eyes upon her back as she moved, and after a moment, she took to lightly jogging.

**_To Be Continued…_**


End file.
